the number of the beast
by vtforpedro
Summary: In which a man searching for love summons a crossroads demon.


Aziraphale is tired.

He's tired, he's fed up, he's lonely, he's hungry.

That last one won't be solved for a while. But for now, as he sits in the back of the taxi, he realizes he really is quite... finished lately. There's something sour in the air and he thinks it may just be him and no amount of freshening up will take care of his problem.

He's been lonely for as long as he can remember. It stretches back years, even before he took over the bookshop from his parents. And it's been a good long while since that happened.

When he was in university, he had the occasional fling or two, nothing that lasted. No one was that special type of person, the kind he'd want to bring home to his parents. They're both gone now and it makes his heart ache to think that he never could show them he was happily by someone else's side. He hopes they died knowing he's doing what he likes to do, in the bookshop, and that he was content enough at that time.

But now that they're gone, he has realized how few friends he actually has. He enjoys the company of a few of his customers, but all of his friends are spread out and they don't talk as often as he'd like. They're a mishmash of people, not connected in any sort of way, but he's collected them over time.

Aziraphale had asked them for help with his little problem but the advice he got was staggeringly contradictory and he hadn't known what to do with it all.

So he'd turned to dating websites and that... hadn't gone well at all, had it?

He had met a few men that had seemed perfectly sane at first but, by the end, had transformed into completely different people. Some men were strange from the get go and while Aziraphale likes strange, they were a bit _ too _ different.

And then there had been the disaster that was speed dating. He needs _ time _to talk about himself and time listening to others speak.

He enjoys a good conversation, thank you very much, Newton, and he won't find it there.

So where else might he look for love? He's tried pubs and book groups and a gay nightclub or two, not quite his scene, and he's tried wandering the grocery store for long periods of time just in case.

Nothing. Nothing works for him and he's fed up. What more can he do to try and find love?

He feels as if he's tried every single way that works traditionally and, one day while reading a book, he'd gotten an idea.

The book had been one written about an occultist family and where that had led them (down the wrong road, certainly). But it doesn't mean that it won't work for everyone.

Anathema is a witch. Surely that means something.

Aziraphale had thought about going to her for some spells, but all of the spells he's heard of her casting have nothing to do with finding love or companionship. They're small spells meant to bring good fortune to the caster and, well, Aziraphale needs more than good fortune.

He needs love.

So he avoids asking her for help as he researches something that will likely secure his place _ downstairs, _but he's had his doubts about religion lately as well.

It isn't hard to find books about summoning demons, considering he has a dozen or so in his bookshop. He reads and he studies and he takes notes for weeks.

Perhaps it's a bit dramatic, but maybe he _ needs _ dramatic.

It makes him nervous to be doing so and he finds himself more jumpy than usual. He looks over his shoulder, sure that he's going to summon bad sorts of people merely by looking at these books, but nothing happens.

Life rushes by him as quickly as it always does and the more he researches, the more he's sure that he's found his solution.

If it works at all, of course.

And, one day, he decides it's the day.

Aziraphale packs up what he might need for the day on top of his summoning supplies and hails a taxi to take him to a little village outside of London.

The internet had said there were many things about the village that spoke of it being a crossroads between earth and well... the demonic.

He looks out of the window at the passing landscapes. The busy city, the highway, the wide open green fields the further they go.

It's a cool spring evening and storm clouds rumble above them, a warning.

Aziraphale wonders if it's a warning for him, but he can't turn back now. His mind is decided.

The taxi driver drops him off in front of a bus stop that sits in front of an incredibly old church. It's very beautiful, all sharp angles and wrought iron, but there's something about it, cast in the last purple hues of the day, that makes it a bit creepy.

It's as if it's trying to send him a message but he doesn't want to heed it.

He turns away and slings his pack over his back as he begins to walk through the small village. It's not far from here, the crossroads, and he tries not to feel uncomfortable with the way people stare at him. It's as if they know why he's here, shaking their heads at him or shooing their children inside, as if he's bringing the apocalypse with him.

Hopefully he isn't.

Aziraphale leaves the village and walks a mile down a backroad. There are thick trees on either side of the dirt road, looming tall and sinister, and there is no birdsong within them, heralding a night of sleep.

He feels scared and unsure but he keeps walking, thinking that he will regret it if he turns back now.

And then he reaches the crossroads, just as the eerie pitch black night falls over the landscape. Beyond the crossroads fields open to him, rolling and familiar, but he feels he might see something he doesn't want to if he keeps looking.

The moon rises, shining a pale light on the road, and he uses it to create his summoning circle. It's not a traditional pentagram like he might imagine, but a shape that reminds him more of a snake than anything.

He sets red candles at different points around it and pulls out his book, muttering, "Evocation, evocation, evocation... ah yes!"

There's a demon's prayer he must say, something he hasn't been looking forward to, as it goes against everything he's ever been taught or believed in, but it's the last part of this little ritual.

"Lord Satan," he starts, grimacing, "by your grace, grant me, I pray thee the power to conceive in my mind and to execute that which I desire to do, the end which I would attain by the help, O Mighty Satan, the one... True God who livest and reignest forever and ever, I entreat thee to inspire... Crowley—"

Aziraphale has hardly any time to think, as the summoning circle suddenly comes to life, blazing a bright red color. From the lines of the serpent rises fire and from within the fire, a shape begins to take hold.

The shape of a person.

Aziraphale gasps as he sees two yellow, glowing eyes look out from the fire, with slits for pupils.

It's worked.

Someone in the circle coughs and waves smoke from the fire from their eyes.

"Bloody hate these things," the... demon says. He snaps his fingers and the fire goes out, leaving the circle to glow red, but not burn. And, surrounding them, are four light poles, lighting up the road.

Aziraphale gapes at the demon. "Are you...?"

"Hm?" the demon asks, looking up at Aziraphale. "Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm Crowley, you summoned me, what for, sign here, all those things."

Aziraphale blinks a few times. "You're not very... demonic."

"Well, you caught me at a bad time, alright?" Crowley says sourly. "I was just about to take a bath."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, the urge to giggle bubbling in his throat, but he swallows it down. "Do demons often take baths?"

"Some of us," Crowley says with some defense. "The humans have got some things down right. Just imagine if you had summoned Hastur. He'd give you a fright, all that frog business."

Aziraphale hasn't got a clue what Crowley's talking about. He clears his throat and gestures at the circle. "I honestly didn't think it would work."

"Most don't," Crowley says and, surprisingly, steps out of the circle and walks closer to Aziraphale.

He gasps. "Can you do that?"

"Huh? What? Oh, walk out of it? Course! Those books aren't completely accurate," he says as he waves dismissively at the book in Aziraphale's hand. Crowley sniffs a bit as he looks Aziraphale up and down.

"Alright, what have we got here?" Crowley asks as he walks in a circle around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale lets him, not sure how to not, and straightens out his waistcoat.

"You're not the usual type I get," Crowley says as he stops and frowns at Aziraphale. "You look like a teacher."

"Bookshop owner," Aziraphale says with a small, nervous laugh.

"Fits you even more, honestly," Crowley says breezily. "Well, what's what? Why have you summoned me?"

Aziraphale takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. "I... I wish to trade my soul," he announces.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of very dark sunglasses, putting them on and hiding his frankly disturbing eyes.

"Do you now," he says. "You seem the type that would like to keep his soul."

"Well, yes, I would, rather," Aziraphale says with a frown. "But I'm at the... end of my rope, as they say."

"Money?"

"No, I live a comfortable life."

"...girls?"

"Erm... no, not quite."

"Boys?"

"Love!" Aziraphale cries, his cheeks hot. "I don't want a random boy."

"Love," Crowley repeats, then hums. "Everyone wants love, don't they?" He sighs and flicks Aziraphale's bow tie. "Can't find it, eh?"

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. "Well, no," he says. "I've tried everything. And I do mean everything, short of buying someone's love, which I have no interest in."

"What's wrong with you?" Crowley asks, sounding genuinely confused. "You seem perfectly normal to me."

"I _ am _perfectly normal," Aziraphale says. "But no one seems to like that these days."

"A bookshop owner who lives a comfortable life and dresses as if he's going to a party in the 1700s," Crowley says as he observes Aziraphale. "Are you stuffy?"

Aziraphale straightens out his bow tie. "I've been called stuffy once or twice before, but I don't particularly see it."

"Well then, that's your problem! You don't need to sell your soul," Crowley says as he laughs. "You need to loosen up!"

"Loosen up?" Aziraphale repeats, his voice high-pitched. "What on earth does that entail?" He frowns. "Aren't you supposed to be eager to take my soul?"

"I come from hell," Crowley says as he points downward and raises his eyebrows. "Do you know how many souls are down there already?"

Aziraphale thinks about that. "I suppose," he says slowly. "How, exactly, am I supposed to loosen up? I think I'm an open person, you know. Open to change and, and open to how different people are."

"Maybe other people don't see that?" Crowley suggests. "I don't know, I've just met you." He gasps. "That's it! I'll come with you for a day or two, show you how it's done."

"You'll what?" Aziraphale squawks as he gapes at Crowley. "I can't very well have a demon with me during the day!"

Crowley scoffs. "I can blend in," he says. "Been doing it for millennia."

Aziraphale eyes Crowley. He is dressed human enough, with a black dress shirt and black jeans. Skinny jeans, of all things, but it fits Crowley's thin frame well.

He's good looking, Aziraphale thinks, but he has a feeling all demons must be to tempt you into sin more easily.

"How in the world will you show me how it's done?"

"Don't I look like I've been around the block once or twice?" Crowley asks expectantly.

"I... suppose," Aziraphale says uncertainly. "With humans?"

"...sure!" Crowley says and holds out his arms. He grins. "I'm the perfect wingman."

Aziraphale huffs and looks around the dark fields surrounding them. He frowns at Crowley. "You'll come with me to my home?"

"I'd still like that bath," Crowley says. "I can meet you there tomorrow morning."

Aziraphale never imagined the day he'd be arranging a time to meet with a demon. Let alone a demon that does not wish for his soul, but wishes to show him how to find love, of all things. It seems very... angelic.

"Are you sure you're a demon?" he finally asks.

"Of course I am!" Crowley scowls. "What else would I be?"

"An angel, perhaps?"

Crowley hisses and clutches at his chest. "How _ dare _ you," he says. "I am perfectly demonic."

"Of course, of course," Aziraphale says quickly. "I'm sorry. I just don't know that many demons."

"You've already sinned by summoning me, so I've got you there," Crowley says. "What more do I need?"

"I suppose only you would know that," Aziraphale says. "Alright then. You can meet me at the bookshop tomorrow. It's in Soho."

"Must be a nice bookshop," Crowley says with a grin. "I'll see you there bright and early. Do you need a lift home?"

Aziraphale tries not to gape again. "Oh yes, that would be lovely."

Crowley nods and reaches out, gently touching Aziraphale's temple. And, quite out of nowhere, they're standing on the corner of the street in front of his bookshop.

Aziraphale gasps as he looks quickly around, then down at his hands, which hold all of his belongings. He looks at Crowley again, his mouth hanging open, and Crowley merely looks back at him with the corner of his lips upturned.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says breathlessly. "Crowley."

"Don't mention it," Crowley says. "Please." He gives a jaunty wave. "Until morning!"

And with a puff of black smoke, he's gone.

Aziraphale goes about the rest of his evening not entirely sure anything that happened was actually real.

He lays down to sleep and stares at the ceiling for a long time, only falling into a fitful sleep in the middle of the night, plagued with strange dreams of demons with red hair and sunglasses.

—

Aziraphale wakes the next morning and lies in bed for a while, buried under his blankets. He blinks blearily and rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling.

Had he really gone out to a crossroads and summoned a demon last night? It seems so very unlike him and he thinks that it may have just been a dream.

An interesting dream, but a dream nonetheless.

"You have _ seven _ different types of cocoa, but only one type of coffee and it's _ light _ roast."

Aziraphale may or may not yelp as he sits up straight in bed, pulling his sheets up to his chest. He stares in shock at the end of the bed, where a very real demon sits.

Crowley's hair is such a fine shade of red, now that he can see it better in the morning light, and he's wearing his sunglasses and the same clothes as before.

He's also holding two steaming mugs in his hands.

"You!" Aziraphale finally manages as he presses his hand against his frantically beating heart. "You've broken in!"

"It's not like it was hard or anything," Crowley says as he hands Aziraphale a mug. "You seem like a cream and sugar type of person."

"I am," Aziraphale says as he takes the warm cup. "But that's hardly the point. You broke into my bookshop and… and then my bedroom!"

Crowley looks around the bedroom, then at Aziraphale. "Fine bedroom," he says. "And an even finer bookshop. Don't worry, I didn't touch anything. Except that dreadfully old coffee maker."

"It still works," Aziraphale says stiffly. He breathes in the scent of coffee and sighs. "Do demons not know anything about propriety?"

Crowley looks over his sunglasses at Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow. "How has propriety worked out for you so far?"

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. "Fair point," he mutters and takes a sip of his coffee. It's surprisingly perfect. "Why are you here so early?"

"I'd like to take you to breakfast," Crowley says. "When it's busiest. We'll sit at the bar and you can talk to people."

"Isn't that more of an evening thing?"

"If you went so far as to summon a demon, it's an anytime thing."

Aziraphale huffs but doesn't say anything in response to that. It does seem very dramatic now that he really thinks about it, but Crowley didn't take his soul and… he seems to be genuinely interested in helping Aziraphale. Which is somewhat suspicious in itself.

"Are you going to trick me?" he demands.

Crowley looks confused. "Trick you?"

"A foul demon trick, to make me think you're helping me when you're really not."

"It would be no fun tricking you," Crowley says, and looks uncomfortable himself. "You're too innocent."

"Innocent!" Aziraphale scoffs. "I'm not very innocent."

"You wanted to trade your soul for love," Crowley says flatly. "True love, even, I know. Most people want money or fame or a specific person to fall in love with them, which always ends badly, let me tell you. You just want a companion. You couldn't be any _ more _ innocent, angel."

Aziraphale sips on his coffee as he eyes Crowley. "I suppose you're the one that knows innocent versus… demonic," he says slowly. "But I still take umbrage with that word."

Crowley smiles. "Oh? And what have you done that makes you not so innocent?"

"Well," Aziraphale says, then frowns. "I did steal a notebook once from the store when I was a teenager."

Crowley lowers his sunglasses to the end of his nose and gives Aziraphale a pointed look. "I'm shaking in my boots, truly, so very naughty."

Aziraphale sniffs. "I told someone I loved them when I didn't."

"We've all been there," Crowley says with a dismissive wave. "Not always easy to find the right words."

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

"Invented the smartphone," Crowley says briskly. "It's all been downhill since."

Aziraphale laughs. _ "You _ invented the smartphone?"

"Yeah," Crowley says. "Gave the idea to some random tech giant. You can imagine how many souls we've gotten since then."

"Ah," Aziraphale says, clearing his throat. "I suppose there is that. Did you do it for that reason?"

"Nah," Crowley says. "I just wanted something that could help me while also inconveniencing others."

Aziraphale hums. "Well, you've certainly done that," he says. "I quite like mine. _ Emojis." _ He grins. "I've gotten the hang of those recently."

"Bah," Crowley says. "That was all the humans. Very confusing."

"Perhaps I can teach you a thing or two as well," Aziraphale says slyly.

Crowley merely smiles and winks as he pushes his sunglasses back up. "C'mon, angel! We've got breakfast to get. Get up and get dressed."

Aziraphale finishes his coffee and slips out of bed, feeling rather self-conscious in his pajamas, but at least he's not naked.

"What shall I wear?"

"Whatever you'd like."

"Shouldn't I try to look nice?"

"You looked nice last night."

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, his cheeks warm. "But isn't the idea to attract people to me?"

"The _ idea _ is to be yourself," Crowley sighs.

Aziraphale turns around from his closet to gape at Crowley. "Be myself? What sort of advice is that?"

Crowley frowns. "The right kind? You don't want to be someone else."

"Being myself has attracted exactly no one."

Crowley hops off the bed and comes to stand in front of the closet as well. "You just haven't met the right people," he says. He gestures widely at the closet. "Are you an actual angel? Everything in here is some version of white."

"I do like the color," Aziraphale says with a frown. "Do angels truly wear white?"

"Light colors all around," Crowley says with a sneer. "You can spot them from a mile away."

"So heaven is real."

"And I'm proof hell is."

Aziraphale nods as he picks out a pale blue waistcoat. "Good to know," he says. "I suppose I'm going…" He points at the ground. "For summoning you."

"That's just one sin," Crowley says. "You'd need to do a lot worse than me to get a ticket downstairs. Don't worry about it. It's better to live life having fun than worrying about where you might end up."

Aziraphale wishes he could live life that way. He worries far too much, he knows, about everything, and it's something he's working on.

He has a strange feeling Crowley might be able to help him with that.

He dresses and follows Crowley out of the shop, looking around to make sure nothing is out of place, but it seems Crowley hasn't caused any mischief. They leave the bookshop and Aziraphale gapes at the car parked in front of it.

Crowley saunters to the passenger side and opens the door for Aziraphale with a flourish.

It's an old Bentley, but beautiful and immensely well cared for. Aziraphale wonders just how much time Crowley spends among humans as he gets into the car. Maybe a little too much, he realizes, as he holds on for dear life as Crowley drives through London.

They arrive at a small restaurant that Aziraphale's never been to, but it's absolutely packed with people. It's not quite nine in the morning and Aziraphale thinks that these people will be far more interested in their breakfast than in him.

Two seats at the bar seem to miraculously open for them and they sit down, ordering mimosas and breakfast. Crowley goes for a greasy hash while Aziraphale gets the eggs benedict.

There are quite a few single men sitting at the bar, which surprises Aziraphale, but none are… exactly what he's looking for.

"Are you sure this is a good time for meeting people?" Aziraphale asks quietly.

"Just talk to people," Crowley says. "You might not meet who you're looking for exactly, but maybe you will _ through _ them."

Aziraphale wonders how likely that would be to actually happen. He also wonders how good Crowley really is with humans, as he himself is feeling incredibly awkward.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" he asks the man next to him.

The man merely grunts and doesn't look up from his breakfast.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who shrugs and gestures at the bartender, a very handsome man in his forties.

"What's your favorite drink?" Aziraphale asks him.

The bartender walks right by him, clearly having not heard his question at all. Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who cringes.

"It's painful, it really is," he says with a sigh. "Maybe breakfast isn't… exactly the perfect time."

Aziraphale frowns and turns back to his mimosa, taking a sip of it. "I don't think any time is the right time," he says miserably. "No one is interested in someone like me."

"Plenty of people are!" Crowley says as he digs his elbow into Aziraphale's arm. "Don't give up so easily. We've barely started."

"What other ideas do you have?" Aziraphale asks. "I've already done this before. Many times, in fact. Most people don't want to be bothered when they're having a meal."

Crowley looks genuinely lost for a moment before he perks up. "What about a walk through the park?"

_ "Everything, _ Crowley," Aziraphale groans. "I've done it all."

"When was the last time you threw a party?"

"A party?" Aziraphale asks. "I don't think I've ever thrown a party."

Crowley holds out his hands. "Well, now seems to be a good time, doesn't it?"

"I don't know nearly as many people as you think I do."

"Host something at the bookshop then. Some sort of free book day or book signing or whatever it is that bookshops hold."

Their food is set in front of them and Aziraphale cuts into his egg as he thinks over what Crowley has said. It's true, he's never done an event at the bookstore, too worried about the fragile state of some of his books.

But if he invites a popular author to do a signing, that may just attract all sorts of people, depending on the book.

Surely he can find an author that would bring in his type.

"That's a good plan," he tells Crowley with a smile. "I may just have to do that."

"Good," Crowley says, with what sounds like relief. "I'll help to get the word out and you'll have them lining up down the street."

They enjoy the rest of their breakfast and drinks with some mild talk and Aziraphale is surprised to think that he rather likes Crowley. The demon isn't what he expected to find at all. He was expecting someone, well, demonic, but Crowley seems more like your average human.

And they do have some interests in common. And what they don't, Aziraphale tries to convince Crowley to enjoy one day. Things like theatre and classical music and those chocolate biscuits from Australia everyone loves so much, including Aziraphale.

Crowley makes Aziraphale laugh and, while he doesn't think he should let his guard down, it feels somewhat like having a new friend.

Perhaps Crowley is leading him to disaster or a nasty trick, but perhaps he's not. Perhaps Aziraphale really has found a new friend. He doesn't mind new friends on his way to love.

The more the merrier.

When they've finished breakfast, Crowley drives them back to the bookshop. Aziraphale shows him around and he can tell Crowley is indulging him, but he enjoys himself nonetheless.

They share a pot of tea as they discuss the best way to go about the book signing. Crowley leaves the design and wording of the invitations and fliers and internet posts to Aziraphale, but promises he will make sure they're far-reaching.

When lunch time comes, Aziraphale makes them sandwiches and watches Crowley from the corner of his eye.

Crowley is certainly nothing like he's been expecting and Aziraphale finds that to be a bit exciting.

There's something fascinating about Crowley and Aziraphale doesn't ask him to leave at any point during the day, nor does Crowley offer to.

It isn't until later in the evening, after they've shared a bottle of wine and a quick spot of dinner Crowley had thrown together, that he finally decides to call it a night.

Aziraphale wonders if it's safe to shake hands with a demon and decides he'll take the chance when he offers his hand and a heartfelt thank you to Crowley.

Crowley looks immensely surprised and his cheeks are a faint pink color as he shakes Aziraphale's hand like he's never done it before. And then he's gone, off in his Bentley, and Aziraphale cleans up after them.

He stays up late researching local authors and finds one that writes fantasy novels with decidedly adult themes. Once he's found an email, he sends one off, politely requesting a book signing for the author's newest book, attaching pictures of the shop and reviews people have left of it.

He feels good as he goes to bed. Better than he has in a long while, actually, so much so that he falls asleep blessedly quick, with a smile on his face.

—

Aziraphale doesn't see Crowley for two days and while he thinks that's a perfectly reasonable time, his anxiety thinks that Crowley has abandoned him.

They haven't exchanged a way to communicate with each other, but Crowley did say he found emojis confusing, so perhaps he has a smartphone. But then, does Crowley live in… hell?

Does hell have cell phone reception?

He hears back from the author, who agrees to the signing. He decides to make the invitations for his friends and the fliers and internet posts once everything is prepared.

On the third day, when Aziraphale wakes, he's shocked to find numerous texts on his phone, as well as dozens of replies to his internet posts. Some people live hours away, but they promise to be there, and Aziraphale marvels at Crowley's work.

There is no doubt that it's Crowley's work, as some people express their amazement that some of the fliers were found in truly bizarre spots, such as ten miles off the coast of the ocean, or that some papers fluttered in through their open windows.

Aziraphale laughs gleefully as he reads their posts.

"The word's out," a familiar voice says.

Aziraphale jumps, but not as badly as the first time, at least. He turns around from his desk, his shoulders slumping in relief, and looks at Crowley, who is lounging on his sofa.

"Your posture is dreadful," Aziraphale says as he turns back to his phone, trying to hide his relief. "There are at least one hundred responses so far! And more keep coming in every minute today. I expect, if it doesn't slow down, I won't have enough tea to serve everyone."

"I'll take care of that," Crowley says. "You should be more concerned with mingling."

Aziraphale huffs and shrugs. "This will certainly be a good way to meet people but I fear I may just be busy enough to not have many meaningful conversations."

"I'm going to be there, you know," Crowley says as he adjusts himself on the sofa. "I can help out. That's what we agreed on, isn't— for heaven's sake, this is the most uncomfortable sofa I've ever been on!"

Aziraphale turns around to look at Crowley, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is glaring at the sofa.

"For heaven's sake?" Aziraphale asks with amusement.

"I'm not proud of it," Crowley says. "But this really is an awful sofa."

"I have had it for a long time," Aziraphale says as he looks at it. "My parents used it the most when they were alive. I usually sit at my desk or the armchair."

Crowley hums. "I can change it, if you'd like. If you don't have any, you know…" he trails off, fluttering his hand through the air. "Attachments."

Aziraphale smiles. "I don't," he says. "But no leather, please."

"Leather is so comfortable," Crowley complains, but he stands anyway. He looks over the sofa for a while before he holds his arms out and frowns as he concentrates.

And, before Aziraphale's eyes, the dingy pink sofa transforms into a sandy-colored sofa, with large cushions and rounded armrests. There are even a couple throw pillows, one that says _ Angel _ and another that says _ Demon. _

"One for you," Crowley says, "and one for me."

He collapses onto the sofa and spreads out again, clutching the demon pillow.

Aziraphale laughs in amazement as he stands and comes to sit next to Crowley. He wiggles around. "Ooo," he says. "This is much better."

Crowley looks satisfied with himself. "I'm a being of comfort," he says with a smile as he looks at Aziraphale. "You chose a good day for the signing. No storms in the forecast."

"That's three weeks away!" Aziraphale says. "Do demons control the weather?"

"Not unless they're really trying to," Crowley says with a shrug. "But we can sense when storms will be coming through. Storms bring sin and death."

"I suppose they do," Aziraphale says as he frowns. "I rather like storms."

"So do I," Crowley sighs with longing. "Perfect time to sit back with a bottle of wine and watch the chaos."

Aziraphale smiles to himself as he imagines Crowley doing just that. Crowley seems more of a mischief maker than a true demon, but he doesn't think he should dare to say it.

"Spot of lunch?" Crowley asks.

"Oh," Aziraphale says as he looks at Crowley. "That would be lovely. What did you have in mind?"

"You seem like the type of person to enjoy the Ritz."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. "It's so hard to get a reservation there. I've never been."

Crowley grins. "It's a good thing it's not hard for me," he says and leaps from the sofa, offering Aziraphale his hand.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who is standing in front of the window, and is lit up by the bright sunlight behind him. He looks like an angel with a halo standing in front of Aziraphale and Aziraphale suddenly sees him in a new light.

The Ritz is a private restaurant, very expensive with a dress code, hardly the best place to meet people.

No… Crowley merely wants to have lunch with Aziraphale.

It makes him feel special, in a way he hasn't in a long while.

He takes Crowley's warm hand in his and stands, not particularly wanting to let go. But he does all the same and follows Crowley out of the shop, his heart thumping wildly.

And, he thinks, _ oh no. _ _  
_ _  
_ This is… not good.

But Aziraphale is nothing if not a creature of habit and thinks he does a good job of hiding his distress as they drive to the Ritz.

It's a beautiful restaurant, with light colors, white table cloths and cream-colored walls. There's a piano in one room and every decoration is rich, designed artfully and made just for the space.

They order a bottle of a very fine champagne and Aziraphale gets the lamb, while Crowley orders the duck.

And it's so incredibly easy to speak with Crowley, to exchange stories with him, to laugh and smile at what Crowley has to say. They fit shockingly well together and they've only known each other for a few days.

Aziraphale would like to continue knowing Crowley.

"If I wanted to speak with you," Aziraphale starts as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, "how do I find you?"

"Oh, right," Crowley says as he pulls out his smartphone. The case has the same serpent that's tattooed by his temple etched onto it. "Give me your number and we'll be able to get in touch with each other."

"Even when you're…?" Aziraphale asks, pointing downward.

"Oh, I don't live there," Crowley says and shudders. "Horrid place, really. I have my own place here in London. So you can text or call me anytime."

Aziraphale likes the sound of that. He gives Crowley his number and when Crowley texts him the devil emoji, he adds him to his phone and feels excited about it.

They share crêpes suzette, which are made at the table by the chef, and Aziraphale enjoys the experience far more than he lets on.

At least he thinks so, because Crowley keeps peering at him with a small smile, as if he knows something Aziraphale doesn't.

Crowley pays for the meal and they return to the bookshop. It's not hard to lounge out on the new sofa with Crowley, full and tired from their meals, but the stream of conversation never stops.

Crowley doesn't leave until late in the evening once again and Aziraphale is sorry to see him go.

He gets into pajamas and stares at his reflection in the mirror in his bedroom.

"He's a demon," he says imploringly. "There are far more fitting people for you."

Aziraphale nods decidedly and gets into bed, but he stares at the ceiling for a long while before sleep takes him.

—

Aziraphale and Crowley see each other nearly every day in the coming weeks. If they aren't in each other's company, they're texting or speaking on the phone late into the night.

Crowley is a being of comfort, he had said, and so is Aziraphale. They both like food and sleep, even if Crowley doesn't actually need those things, and Aziraphale enjoys his company immensely.

Crowley is delightfully quirky and funny. They see a movie together on his urging and Aziraphale finds that he actually enjoys the experience of a modern movie theater.

He convinces Crowley to come with him to see a play in one of the smaller theatres and he pretends he doesn't see the tear that escapes Crowley's eye as the heroine of the story mourns her lost loved one.

They dine out regularly and exchange music and books, and Aziraphale feels… conflicted.

Crowley still gives him advice on how to meet people, but Aziraphale thinks it's never the greatest advice. He wonders how much experience Crowley truly has with getting together with humans, but he doesn't ask, because Crowley had been adamant about it.

But honestly, who spends time at an airport to meet people?

Aziraphale does meet people though. Crowley and he aren't the best, he thinks, when it comes to actually having conversations with regular, everyday people. Crowley is charmingly awkward but he draws in people either way.

And Aziraphale does get a number from a man that they meet during intermission at the theatre. They text each other and Aziraphale enjoys conversation with him, but there's something stopping him from offering to get drinks or accepting the man's own offer.

He may well be Aziraphale's soul mate for all he knows, but does he want that? Does he really want to spend all of his time getting to know someone else, when he is already getting to know Crowley?

He doesn't want to lose anytime that he can spend with Crowley and starting to date seems as if it might take up all of his time.

He stops texting the man from the theatre altogether.

It worries him that he's becoming attached to a demon of all people, but he already knows that Crowley is not at all demonic. He enjoys inconveniencing people, oh yes, but never to the point that they die.

He tempts people to sin every day, but they're mild sins, Aziraphale knows.

Nothing that gets people sent directly to hell.

It's odd. And from the stories Crowley tells him about the other demons, they're certainly not all like that. Especially when it comes to reptiles living on their very person.

Crowley is very neat and clean and enjoys growing plants for goodness' sake.

"Were you always a demon?" Aziraphale asks the night before the book signing.

Crowley is quiet for a while, sipping his wine as they sit on the sofa, watching the television Crowley insisted Aziraphale simply must own.

"No," he finally says, the most sober Aziraphale thinks he's ever seen Crowley.

"Oh," Aziraphale says. He's not sure he should push further, but he's incredibly curious. "Were you a human?"

"No, thank Satan," Crowley says. "I was an angel."

Aziraphale gapes at Crowley in shock. "So you're… a fallen angel?"

Crowley nods. "Yep," he says and pours himself more wine. "We all are. Even angels can sin. Or ask too many questions, in my case."

"You were dropped from heaven because you asked too many questions?" Aziraphale asks with a frown. "That's awful!"

"Not as tolerant as they all claim to be, are they," Crowley says with a sigh. "Life as a demon is much more fun though."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Aziraphale says. "But I suppose that everything happens for a reason."

"That's what they say," Crowley says as he looks at Aziraphale with a smile. "Wouldn't have met you, otherwise."

Aziraphale blushes and hides it behind his wine glass as he takes a hearty sip. "I am rather thankful for that," he says softly. "You've been… a very good friend to me."

Crowley coughs a little. "Don't go shouting about it," he says. "I have a reputation."

"Of course," Aziraphale says with a smile. "A very frightful one."

"Shut up," Crowley says, but there's fondness in his voice.

He sleeps on the sofa that night, mumbling about wanting to feel the complete effects of alcohol, and Aziraphale lies in bed, staring at the ceiling and wishing Crowley was by his side instead.

—

Aziraphale's morning is hectic. His bookshop is clean, if a bit cluttered, but he still spends a long time getting everything into order.

He's cleared a space for the table and comfortable chair he brings in, as well as the large posters advertising the book the author will be signing.

Aziraphale had mentioned to Crowley a few days ago that he would be going shopping to buy a mass amount of tea and chocolate biscuits, but Crowley had assured him he could merely duplicate everything himself.

It'll save him some money anyway. Not that he thinks he'll really need it, if he sells many books tonight.

He sets up another table for snacks and beverages and wanders the shop, looking for something else he might do.

Crowley is also wandering around, occasionally adjusting books, so they stand straight on the shelves.

Aziraphale thinks Crowley is nervous, which is a surprise. He's never seen him nervous, but Crowley has been pacing as much as he has, a frown on his face. Aziraphale wishes he would take his sunglasses off more often, so that he might be able to see what's held in his eyes, but he can't bring himself to ask for something so intimate.

He's certainly grown fonder of Crowley's eyes, on the rare occasion he does see them.

They both skip lunch, too anxious to eat, and by the time it rolls around to six in the evening, Aziraphale is glad of it.

There's been a steady stream of people coming to the bookshop to line up outside. By six, however, they've wound around the shop and down the street.

It's shocking and he tells Crowley so, who merely smiles smugly at him.

The author, J.B. Silas, comes with his agent, and Aziraphale greets him warmly. He's read his books in the last few weeks and enjoyed them, so it's a special treat to meet him.

He's no Shakespeare, but Crowley tells him Shakespeare was annoying to be around anyway.

When Mister Silas has gotten himself comfortable with tea and a large stack of books next to him to sell, he tells Aziraphale that he can start sending people in.

He opens the shop doors and greets people as they form a line inside. Most thank him for hosting the book signing and he's surprised by how many people he recognizes. Many have been in his shop before, or have shops of their own throughout Soho, and even Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy come.

Aziraphale takes tea and biscuits to the people in line, not having to worry about anything running out, as Crowley merely snaps his fingers and more appear on the table.

Crowley keeps up conversation with those that don't leave right away, but wander the shop instead.

"That bloke's nice," Crowley says into Aziraphale's ear after a while, nodding at a man near the rare books section.

There's something strange in his voice, something that makes Aziraphale uncomfortable, but he can't pinpoint what it is.

"I'll go and talk with him," Aziraphale says. "Thank you."

And yet, it takes him another half hour before he can bring himself to do it.

"Hello," he greets the man. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

He's tall and handsome, with short brown hair and glasses, and a winning smile as he looks at Aziraphale.

"I'd be surprised if you had what I'm looking for, honestly."

"Try me," Aziraphale says with a smile. "This shop is bigger than it might seem."

"I'm looking for _ Gathered Leaves," _ the man says. "Pricey these days… but I've been looking for a while."

Aziraphale smiles slyly. "Right this way," he says and gestures for the man to follow him.

They move to the rare books section, which is quiet, and Aziraphale plucks a book off of the shelf, handing it over.

"What do you say to that?"

The man laughs. "I'm shocked!" he says with a grin. "You have it in such good condition as well. Wrapped and everything." He turns over the book in his hands before he looks at Aziraphale again. "How do you manage to have such a good collection?"

"Scouring the internet day and night," Aziraphale says. "Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. And it takes much longer to sell than it does to buy them."

They laugh together.

"I might just have to come by more often," the man says. "For the books and the company." He smiles as he holds out his hand. "Bradley."

"Aziraphale," Aziraphale says as he takes Bradley's hand and shakes it. "You are most welcome here, of course."

An arm wraps around his shoulders quiet suddenly and Aziraphale looks up in surprise at Crowley, who is eyeing the man strangely.

"Been looking for you, angel," he says. "J.B. wants a word about something or other."

"Oh," Aziraphale says with a frown. "Of course. It was good to meet you, Bradley. I hope to see you around!"

Bradley looks disappointed. "Yes, see you," he says as he looks at Crowley as oddly as Crowley had looked at him.

Aziraphale decides to ignore that for now and hurries to Mister Silas, who seems more confused than anything, before he asks for more tea. Aziraphale fetches it for him and when he's done, Bradley is nowhere in sight.

"I think he may have been flirting with me," Aziraphale says to Crowley, when he finds him lurking near the door. He's not sure he's glad for Bradley's interest or not. His stomach is churning and he can't tell with what. Nothing good, he thinks.

"Him?" Crowley asks with great surprise. "I don't know about him."

"Why not?" Aziraphale asks, frowning.

"Bad aura," Crowley says. "A real sinner, that one."

"Oh," Aziraphale says. He's surprised he feels such relief at the news. He smiles. "Well, there's always other fish in the sea."

"Mmm, yeah," Crowley says as he looks around. "No one here though."

"How can you tell?"

"Just can."

Aziraphale sighs. "I've told you no one seems interested in me."

"There are _ plenty _ of people interested," Crowley says sourly. "But they're not good fits for you. They wouldn't treat you right."

"You can't possibly know that," Aziraphale says as he looks around as well.

"Can too," Crowley says.

Aziraphale notices that Crowley isn't meeting his eye and when he tries to catch it, Crowley merely turns away. Aziraphale frowns, wondering what's gotten into him.

It seems strange, to declare that no one here would fit Aziraphale, as he's never said anything like that in large crowds before.

"Hello, Aziraphale," says a familiar voice. "What a fun time this has been!"

"Ah, Tracy," Aziraphale says warmly as she approaches them with her husband Sergeant Shadwell on her arm. "I'm so glad you've been enjoying it. Thank you for coming!"

"Crowley was telling us how much time you've been spending together lately," Madame Tracy says with quite an exaggerated wink. "You've been looking for so long, dear."

Aziraphale blushes furiously. "Oh, no, that's not—"

"Just friends, really," Crowley says, sounding rather sour still.

"Oh!" Tracy says. "Sorry, my mistake. It's just…" She trails off, frowning at Aziraphale. "You two fit together so well either way."

"As friends, yes," Aziraphale says quickly as he glances out of the corner of his eye at Crowley.

Crowley's tense, he can tell, shoulders arched up like an angry cat. His ears are red, something Aziraphale has only seen a few times, and feels rather depressed that Crowley might be embarrassed at the idea of them together.

It hurts and Aziraphale's surprised by just how much it does.

He clears his throat and opens his mouth, but Crowley says, "Looks like J.B. needs more tea. Excuse me."

And he's off, but as Aziraphale watches him go, he sees Crowley wander back toward the kitchen and frowns.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Tracy says hurriedly. "I didn't mean to scare him off."

"Don't think you did," Sergeant Shadwell says importantly. "He's clearly bothered by something else. I know that look."

They look at Shadwell, but he doesn't seem like he's going to elaborate on that.

"That… look?" Tracy asks him.

"The look of being lovesick," Shadwell says. "He's got it. The unrequited kind." He nods, as if he's got the world figured out. "Aye, that boy's been hurt."

Aziraphale gapes at him for a while. "Hurt?" he repeats and looks after where Crowley went. "But who would hurt him?"

Shadwell opens his mouth, but Tracy elbows him, and he snaps it shut.

"We're sure no one is hurting him _ on purpose," _ she says pointedly. "You can always ask him."

Aziraphale feels immensely uncomfortable at the idea of that. "Oh, I don't know," he says uncertainly. "He's very private when it comes to his love life."

"Probably because he doesn't have one," Shadwell says. "I'd be private if I didn't have one either." He straightens himself out. "But I do."

Tracy rolls her eyes hard enough that it must hurt. "You're very good friends, it sounds like," she says. "He'll open up to you, if you only ask."

Aziraphale clears his throat a few times and straightens his waistcoat. "I suppose there's no harm in it," he says. "Maybe I should wait until we're done here?"

"Privacy might be best," Tracy says with a sympathetic smile as she pats Aziraphale's arm.

They say their goodbyes and head home. Aziraphale helps to wrap up the signing as the line finally starts to come to an end. Crowley is nowhere to be seen and Aziraphale feels somewhat left behind as he thanks everyone for coming.

Once the line is gone, he shakes Mister Silas's hand and thanks him profusely. He's sold quite a few books tonight and made a decent profit, compared to what he usually pulls in on a Tuesday night.

Once Mister Silas and his agent have left after more conversation, Aziraphale locks up the shop and decides to find Crowley.

He's not in the kitchen, nor is he anywhere in the shop, or the bathroom either. Aziraphale frowns as he calls Crowley's name, but gets no response.

He's starting to fear Crowley has left but when he looks outside, his Bentley is still parked down the street.

Aziraphale walks upstairs and checks each room before finally ending at his own. He pushes open the door and steps inside, blinking in surprise to find Crowley there.

Crowley is sitting on the edge of Aziraphale's bed, flipping through a photo album, his sunglasses laid next to him.

"Hello there, my dear," Aziraphale says carefully.

"'Lo," Crowley mumbles.

Aziraphale frowns and moves to his bed and sits a few feet away from Crowley. "Ah, my old family album," he says with a small smile. "There are some truly dreadful pictures in there."

Crowley holds up the album and peers at Aziraphale pointedly as he points at a photo of him as a baby, dressed in what looks like a white dress.

"Yes, exactly," Aziraphale chuckles. "Do you… have any pictures of yourself?"

"Plenty of selfies," Crowley says. "But nothing like this. Never had anyone to take them."

"I suppose not," Aziraphale says and dares to move closer. "You missed the end of the signing."

"Was it exciting?"

"Not particularly," Aziraphale says. "I didn't exchange numbers with anyone."

Crowley doesn't respond to that. He merely keeps flipping pages, tracing his fingers over pictures of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale swallows dryly.

It can't possibly be what he's thinking. There's simply no way on earth Crowley is _ interested _ in him.

They're a demon and a human, hardly a good mix at all, and yet…

And yet.

"Why wouldn't I have fit with anyone in the shop tonight?" he asks softly.

Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows and he shrugs. "Because."

"That's not much of an answer, my dear," Aziraphale says. "Why?"

Crowley sets the album aside and leaps from the bed. He looks at Aziraphale, his eyes a bit wild. Aziraphale thinks his irises are even bigger than the average person's, but it's not frightening looking.

He thinks _ Crowley _ looks scared.

"Because they don't know you," Crowley says matter-of-factly. "They don't know who you are, or, or all of your little nuances. They don't know how you like your eggs or that your favorite color is white. They don't know that you can't drive to save your life, they don't know that you love St. James's park. They don't know your love of food and truly awful, dated dancing. They just… they don't know you."

Aziraphale watches Crowley, his heart in his throat, beating almost painfully.

"You sound like you know me," he says slowly.

"I do!" Crowley says a bit desperately. "We've only known each other for a few weeks but I bet I know you better than anyone."

Aziraphale nods. "Yes, I don't doubt that," he says and folds his hands in his lap. "Would you like to continue knowing me?"

Crowley frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Aziraphale says, "would you like to stay with me? At my side?"

Crowley gapes at him, looking truly shocked, his cheeks pink and his mouth hanging open.

Aziraphale smiles. "I think that no one else would fit me, like you said," he says. "Not as well as you fit me. As we fit each other."

He watches as Crowley reaches for the bed and slowly sits down next to Aziraphale again.

"You mean it?" he asks, in a small, delicate voice.

Aziraphale's heart warms and he scoots closer, until they're pressed side to side. He takes up Crowley's hand and squeezes it.

"I do," he says. "Quite, actually. I'm very fond of you, Crowley."

Crowley's cheeks are red now and he continues to gape at Aziraphale, as if he's seeing him in a new way. Perhaps he is… perhaps he's seeing Aziraphale as he is and as he feels.

As someone who's rather madly, deeply in love with him.

"I'm fond of you too, angel," Crowley says, something vulnerable in his voice. "I've never been fond of an angel before."

Aziraphale chuckles and lifts Crowley's hand to press a kiss to the back of it. "I'm somewhat demonic, aren't I? Summoning a demon to help me find love?"

"Not really," Crowley says as he looks at Aziraphale in awe. "But maybe a little demonic for falling for one."

"I've fallen quite hard, you know."

"Yeah," Crowley says, a wide smile growing on his face. "I know the feeling."

"You were very bad at giving me advice to find someone, you know."

"I didn't mean to be," Crowley says. "Not at first anyway."

Aziraphale grins as he rubs his thumb over Crowley's. "You've never been with humans before, have you?"

Crowley looks sheepish. "...not biblically, anyway."

They both laugh at that and Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's hand in return and gazes fondly at him.

"What do we do now?" Aziraphale asks.

"Now," Crowley says with a smile. "Now we kiss."

"An easy thing, when it comes to you."

"Shut up," Crowley says with a grin. "Or you'll make me blush."

"Too late."

"Shut _ up," _ Crowley says as he leans in.

And they kiss and it is like all of the love songs say, with tingling and warmth and the comfort of love.

The comfort of _ home, _ found with someone else.

And it is like being home, with Crowley at his side.

He's finally found love, in the most unconventional of ways, with a demon with a heart of gold.


End file.
